Heaven, Earth, and Sea
by Unicadia
Summary: A collection of vignettes, short stories, and drabbles about characters from The Silmarillion. T because, well, Silmarillion.
1. Birth: Míriel

**Hello all! I couldn't help myself - I'm attempting another 100 theme challenge (yes, I know) - this time for _The Silmarillion_! It is a 100 emotions challenge, and each chapter will be about one character. I will focus on each character only once, though they may appear in other chapters focusing on other characters. I'm trying to get out of my comfort zone and write about a wide variety of personalities! Please let me know what you think and/or any ideas you may have!**

 **First up is Míriel.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

A fire burned within me.

The child kicked often, and I imagined he was trying to escape.

"How do you know it's a boy, Míriel?" they asked me.

I shook my head, my silver locks hiding my face from them. I simply knew.

He hated the darkness, hated confinement. But he stilled when I sang. I sang of the world he would enter, of clouds and wind and trees.

One day I sat embroidering a blanket for him when I felt him kick again. He kicked seven times, then stopped. A stab of fear entered my heart – only a moment, and the pain left almost immediately. But I felt the fire more intensely that time, a fire which consumed all, leaving bitter tears.

I told Finwë.

He laughed. "He will be great among the Noldor someday." I did not laugh. He sobered. "Are you worried, Míriel?"

I shook my head. "Nay, only . . ." I looked away. "Afraid."

He took my hands, enveloping them. "Why?"

The words came out almost without my knowing them. "Afraid he will become great among the Noldor."

"Is that such a sorrowful thing?" He squeezed my hands.

I felt tears behind my eyes, though I did not know why. "Perhaps not great in the way you think, Finwë," my voice a whisper.

He kissed my cheek. "Do not fret, Míriel. With your guidance he will become great as I imagine."

I did not answer.

* * *

When I gave birth to the fire, Fëanaro, he consumed my spirit. I saw fire in him, and in everything he did, but I did not tell Finwë. I kissed my son's face and went to Lórien, where I lay down and slept.


	2. Enthusiasm: Oromë

I galloped Nahar as fast as he could go, over the rivers and forests, past the dark mountains and silent meres. The stars swirled above us, reflecting in Ulmo's sea, another heaven in the deeps. We crossed the waters to Aman as Laurelin waxed, flooding the land in golden light. We rode up the heights of the Pelóri, to the gates of Valmar. I leaped off of Nahar and rang the great bell which called the Valar from the far reaches of Ëa to gather in the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom.

"What is the matter, Oromë?" Ulmo asked as he came out of the sea. "This should be better than just another deer you killed . . ."

I scoffed. "It was a white deer, Ulmo. Worthy of recognition. But come, to the Máhanaxar! I will tell you once all are assembled."

One by one, my fellow Valar entered the Ring of Doom. More than a few of them looked skeptical. Even Vána, my lovely wife with nightshades braided into her long hair, gave me a "don't embarrass me, dear" look. I did not care, though. Once they all arrived, I jumped up from my throne, shaking with excitement. I turned toward Manwë and Varda. "They have come!"

They collectively straightened. Tulkas leaned forward, blue eyes shining. "The Children – the Firstborn – they are here?"

"Yes!" I could have shot one of Varda's stars, I felt so elated.

"What are they like?" asked Aulë.

Oh, words to describe them! "Beautiful. They are beautiful. Nothing like what we saw of them when Ilúvatar showed them to us." I ran over to Nienna and grasped her braid. "Some have dark hair like Nienna. Others, golden, like Tulkas, or Laurelin. Still others have silver hair. Silver! Like Telperion. I have never seen anything like it. There are even a few with hair red as Aulë's earth."

"Do they love flowers?" asked Vána.

"And trees. Do they love the trees?" asked Yavanna.

"Never mind that," said Ulmo. "Do they care for the sea?"

"And the earth? Will they love my people?" asked Aulë.

"Are they kind?" whispered Nienna.

"How do they sleep?" asked Estë.

"Do they dream?" wondered Irmo.

"Do they make things?" asked Vairë.

"What do they think of my stars?" asked Varda.

"Or the wind?" added Manwë.

"Do they run with the deer?" asked Nessa.

I answered each in turn, occasionally tripping over my words in my excitement.

Then, in the midst of the talk, Námo spoke, his voice low, but resounding, silencing us all. "Do they have voices?"

Surprised, I said, "Yes. Yes, they do."

A moment of quiet. Then, "Do they sing?"

A silvery voice filled my mind. "Yes."

A tiny smile appeared on his lips. "That is all I wanted to know."


	3. Love: Finduilas

"Mother, what do I do?" I wept into the coverlet of my bed. "I – I love them both! How can I choose?"

She sighed, stroking my hair, and did not speak for some time. At last she said, "It is not wise to love one of the Secondborn." In a lower voice she added, "Especially one who calls himself Bloodstained."

Gwindor told me the same thing. I ran a finger over an embroidered crown of elanor on my coverlet, and mumbled, "Lúthien loved one of them."

Mother caught my hand. "It was her doom, Finduilas! And you know what befell her. It is not wise."

I sat up. "But she lives again, though as a mortal, and she is happy, for she is with Beren." I paused. "Perhaps it is my doom as well." Even if he was not Beren, perhaps some good could come of it.

Mother made a little sound, like a hurt foal. "I hope not, daughter." She looked away. "Gwindor may be broken in body, but he loves you still."

"I know."

 _Eyes like a night of Varda's stars, dark curls I was fond of pulling. A gentle hand on my shoulder, soft lips against mine. A careless, defiant laugh. "I'll be back, little one," he told me before he rode away._

Mother spoke again. "He is noble, noblest of the lords of the House of Finarfin. Do not push him aside so swiftly for that man." She said _man_ like the word was poison.

I shook my head. "I know. I know. But Túrin is equally noble. He carries himself like a lord among the Eldar."

Mother gave me a questioning look. "Who is Túrin?"

I blushed. "Gwindor said that is him name aright."

Mother stood. "I do not know what else to tell you."

"It does not matter," I whispered, "for Túrin does not love me."

"All the better." She bent down and kissed my forehead before leaving my room.


	4. Hate: Finrod

**A different perspective on a supposedly perfect character . . .**

 **Also: Kinslaying violence. It's brief, but don't say I didn't warn you.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

I had never felt this way before. I could scarcely give a name to it. It raged through my body, burning and cold, insatiable, though I thought I knew what would ease it. I longed to grasp my sword, my fingers clenched around it, and drive it into the heart of my uncle, who left us in this forsaken land. I longed to throttle my cousins, feel their throats between my hands, especially Curufinwë, the bastard, whom I saw pin down my grandmother and slay her, and then leave her without another look. And Carnistir, heeding none, slaughtering a path before him as he went, his tunic drenched in blood, children screaming before him. Even Makalaurë, sweet Maka with the voice like the sea, cutting down elleth and child alike, my mother's people, my people. Did they not remember the days we hunted together? The meals we shared, the festivals, the songs?

I wished I could do something, anything but sit shivering beside my brothers and sisters and my other cousins whom I still loved, trying not to succumb to the seducing cold which whispered in our ears and clawed at our bodies.

Turukáno must have felt the same as I did. He would not speak the names of any of those who betrayed us, but rather said, _"The murderers."_ I knew he spoke not of what passed at Alqualondë, for he too participated in that, though by accident, but of Elenwë, his wife, who a month ago, fell into a chasm in the ice, lost forever.

I did not like what I felt, and would often leave the others, going as far as I dared, and scream at the ceaseless winds which tore across the ice, my only release. How I longed to avenge my kin, but more than that, I longed to once more hold Amarië, my golden-haired love in the green land of Valinor. Would I ever see her again? I cursed Fëanaro, I cursed his oath, I cursed my cousins, I cursed the ice, and I cursed myself, for my folly.

Then one night, as I watched the stars, stroking Artanis' silver-golden hair as she slept in my lap, I knew the name of what I felt.

Hate.


	5. Triumph: Tuor

A blackness crept upon the edges of my vision, threatening to overcome me and send me hurtling to the same fate as Glorfindel only moments before – Glorfindel, now born away by Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. I reached out to Idril, who took my hand, squeezing far harder than she was wont to. I looked up into her face, dirt-stained and tear-streaked. Eärendil, his arms wrapped around her neck, whimpered into her golden hair. He should have been older, I thought. He was too young to see all the death and burning from which we had escaped. Too young to be threatened by one whom he thought had been his friend, see his mother gripped by someone other than his father, hear her scream, and then see his father push the attacker over a cliff. Yes, he should have been older.

I straightened, letting Idril's hand go, and faced the tiny host we led. "We march on!" I shouted to the stricken, grieving faces scattered along the narrow mountain pass.

A lady with a gash in her arm took hold of my sleeve. "But, lord," she said between sobs, "what of the Lord Glorfindel?"

I inwardly cursed. I could not dwell on yellow-haired Glorfindel; I would surely break if I did. I took in a shuddering breath. "He is gone. We must press onward." I faced forward again.

At that moment, a strange idea came into my head. I looked at Idril, at Eärendil, at the people staggering behind us.

Then I laughed.

Idril glanced at me, once, a confused, even irritated, look on her face. But Eärendil, up until that point white with terror, laughed as well. His voice rang upon the cliff-sides, a strange sound. A girl beside me chuckled a little, joined by her parents, and then those with them. Soon the entire host carried with them the sound of their fair voices, echoing in the mountains, up into the airs whence the eagles came and went.

And so we left Gondolin in laughter, a defiant challenge to Morgoth, a triumph.


	6. Feel: Vairë

I never cease weaving.

The spirits watch me, asking me questions, giving suggestions.

"His eyes are blue," a solemn maiden of the Vanyar, one of the few there in the Halls, told me once. "Not green." I looked at her, surprised. No one had ever dared correct me before.

I pointed to her husband's eye. "It is close enough. Blue can appear green at times."

She shook her head. "They are very blue. Blue as the sky. No green."

I laughed a little, and unraveled the threads.

"Did I really look that heroic?" another elf asked me once, motioning to a tapestry depicting his last stand.

"I thought so," I answered.

"I did not feel heroic. I felt like a failure." He grimaced.

I did not know what to say, and continued weaving, while he sat at my feet, his face full of wonder as he watched me.

"Do not weave that," a Telerin elf begged of me, not long after he arrived. "I did not deserve such a death."

I sighed. "Most do not deserve any death. And I know it shames you, but it is my task to weave all that occurs in Arda."

He turned away, covering his face.

"Did he find her?" a curly-haired Noldo asked. "Did he rescue her?"

I do not always remember what I weave, so many tapestries have I made.

We found the tapestries after his death, and he followed them carefully, his face darkening as he progressed, until he came to the end where he gave a little cry. He straightened and looked at me. "He did not."

"Where are my sons now?" a black-haired Noldo asks me from time to time. He is one of the more restless ones, wandering the Halls with a strange glint in his eyes. I show him the tapestries of his sons, and he laughs or becomes angry or sighs and rolls his eyes. Sometimes he looks upon the depictions of them with pride, and says, "He is a true son of mine." Other times he scoffs, and says, "If I were still with him, I would disown him." I never say a word, but gaze upon the woven figures in my tapestries in sorrow after he has left.

Námo often comes by while I weave, a hand on my shoulder, a soft compliment. He alone knows how much my task pains me. I feel too much in it. There is joy, when the elven maiden is reunited with the Secondborn man, but there is too much sorrow, and my hand slows as I weave the battles, the blood, the valiant king of the Noldor slain on blackened earth, the mortal woman floating like one asleep down the rushing river, the children left to die the tangled trees.

"Do you ever tire of weaving all that passes?" asked a spirited Noldo maiden after watching me work for a long while.

"At times, yes."

* * *

 **Were you able to guess who each of the elves are? If not, they are, in order, Elenwë, Mablung, Saeros, Gwindor, Fëanor, and Aredhel.**


	7. Wrecked: Voronwë

When I opened my eyes, I saw white sand and a conch shell half-buried in it. I stared at it, enamored by its simple beauty. As my mind regained consciousness, I became aware of my aching body, the throbbing pain in my leg and head, the cold, gritty feeling of filth all along my ragged clothes and bruised body, the blank numbness of the aftermath of terror.

The waves washed around me, bathing me, seeping into my wounds and stinging. Groaning, I dragged myself along the sand, away from the cursed water. The sand scraped against the gash in my leg and I collapsed once more, too tired and sore to move.

A dark memory floated into my mind – a storm, a great storm, the Valar's wrath administered by Ossë in all his fury. My best friend, my father, hurled into the sea, the ship riding a wave to the heavens, I alone aboard it, then turning over, the wave covering all. Blackness overtaking me, a fleeting thought before I lost consciousness: _The Valar have abandoned us._

We would all die by the hand of Morgoth. We were all cursed, unable to even plead for help.

I lifted my head. A few meters ahead, the sand gave way to coarse grass.

I reached out to touch it.

Nothing like the grass in the vale of Tumladen.

But grass nonetheless.

Never again would I sail. I would remain on the solid green earth of Arda until it broke apart, and it, too, foundered beneath the waves.


	8. Soft: Nerdanel

I wished for daughters, and perhaps that was wrong.

At first, I did not care. Fëanáro and I both taught our sons the art of making beautiful things. Metal and wood, silver, gold, liquid jewels, and cold marble, they all took to and subdued. I thought, _What a fine thing it is to have so many sons, seven sons, seven stars._

They made the most beautiful things in the world: golden roses ("For Artanis," my youngest, barely ten years old, told me solemnly), busts of wild-maned horses (Carnistir never attempted any other subject), portrait etchings of our family (Maitimo made many, capturing our likenesses with almost frightening accuracy), toys for the younger boys ("Carnistir is too young for a bow, Tyelko," I said, taking the arrow from my fourth son's hand before he stabbed his eye out), elaborate head-pieces (Maka made me a foot-high crown covered in silver birds and twining elanor, and dangling with diamonds), rings (hundreds and hundreds of rings; "What will you do with them all, Atarinkë?" I asked my fifth youngest.), even miniatures of Tirion on green Túna ("I want to remember it," said my sixth son.).

But then my husband went mad, and pulled my sons down after him, corrupting them, driving them mad as well. Then they no longer made beautiful things. Hands that once crafted silver birds now made silver handles of daggers and swords. They became as hard and cold as those cursed jewels, those Silmarils.

Maitimo no longer rode with Findekáno, his best friend, once ("I never want to see him again."). Makalaurë grew restless, hiding in strange places, playing strange music ("What are you doing under the bed, Maka?" "Leave me, Ammë."). Tyelkormo rarely came home, always out riding, in terrible humors when he returned ( _A vase thrown across the room, shattered like stars on the floor._ "I will be greater than all of you one day."). Carnistir, always slow to smiling and laughter, ceased altogether ("Why should I laugh? There is no reason to laugh."). The change in Atarinkë frightened me the most. I saw he was becoming his father, from his raven-black hair to the wild glint in his eyes to the ruthless, relentless fire burning in his breast. He spent all his days in the forge, instead of hunting with Tyelko as he used to ("I don't have time to eat with the family, Ammë. I'm making a masterpiece."). The twins, Ambarrussa, they continued in their old habits, but they became more solemn, angrier ("We're no longer children, Ammë! Let us alone.")

Seven stars, blackened, burned.

I wished I had seven daughters instead of seven sons, and I hated myself for thinking that way.

My daughters-in-law must have wished the same at times.

"He raised his voice at me," Maka's wife told me, silver tears on her cheeks. "He never does that."

"He slapped Tyelpë," said Atarinkë's wife, a dazed expression on her face, "for setting a jewel in a ring wrong."

They both followed their husbands into exile. I have never met Carnistir's wife, and I pray he is gentle with her, if with nothing else.

My sons and my husband left me, a long time ago, leaving a crater in my heart. I long for them, but I wonder, if they did come back, if they could come back, would their hearts still be hard, or would they be soft again, like in their untainted youth?

I sigh, and return to my sculpture.


	9. Cold: Amrod

**Warning for violent imagery.**

 **I decided to go with the version where Amras is the elder twin and Amrod the younger, because Amrod did get all the fateful names. I am much more used to Amras being the youngest, but oh well.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

I dream of Ammë.

We stand together beneath the forests of Oromë, the wind rustling the leaves, caressing our bodies, and blowing our hair – both a fire-burnished copper. The air is cool, cold, the way I like it. Ammë holds my hand, and she speaks, but I cannot hear what she says.

 _Cold._

 _I think of the Ice, our cousins, our kin, abandoned on the far shore. I know Atar does not mean to go back for them, but I must remind him again when I wake._

The air warms a little. I do not mind too much. A horse neighs, and my own, my Telparië, my silver mare, canters through the trees up to me. She thrusts her muzzle into my hand, and I stroke the stretched velvet of her delicate face. Ammë says something else, a smile on her lips, but still, I cannot hear her.

 _Cold._

 _A freezing wind ripped through my hair as I stared down at the maiden I had just thrust my sword into. Her silver hair flowed into her blood pooling around her. I trembled, the sword shaking in my hand, clattering to the wooden planks of the dock. My knees shuddered, and I collapsed beside the maiden._

I start sweating. I feel rather like I am standing in Atar's forge, though I am outside. I mount Telparië and extend my hand to Ammë. She grasps my hand and I pull her up behind me. Looking down at her, I see she laughs, but I cannot hear the sound of it. I feel a vague sense of distress at this, but I decide to ignore it, and urge Telparië into a gallop.

 _Cold._

 _Ambarussa's hand on my shoulder was icy, and I jumped at his touch. Stiffly, I looked up into his face. Between the stray strands of copper hair flying and the blood from the thin scratch on his cheek, I see tears falling._

We are galloping as fast as Telparië can go, and yet, I feel no wind, no cooling rush of air. Only stagnant heat, ever increasing. I bring Telparië to a halt and pull off my tunic in an attempt to cool myself. The fabric is soaked, dripping with sweat. I feel lightheaded and dizzy. Slowly, I look back at Ammë to see how she is coping. To my surprise, she is no longer astride Telparië, but far behind on a hill I don't remember. For all the distance, I can see her face clearly; tears fall from her eyes, and she holds up a hand, as if in farewell. Her mouth moves, but I hear no sound.

 _Cold._

 _We boarded the ships silently, while the others slept. I was the last one on the ship of my father, but I slipped on some ice which had formed on the gangplank, and I plummeted into the icy water. Everything went black, until Atar and Makalaurë heaved me out and Ambarussa gave me some wine. The ice forming in my hair and on my clothes did not match the ice forming in my heart._

The heat burns now, searing and ravenous. It tears at my skin, leaving it bleeding and raw, but then it consumes that as well. I scream in pain, see Ammë's face, dripping with tears, one last time, and wrench myself awake, relieved it was only a nightmare.

Except it wasn't.

* * *

 **Telparië will be making some later appearances.**

 **Please tell me what you think!**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**


	10. Without: Aegnor

Her dark hair fell through my fingers, and I felt her delicate hröa crush a little beneath my other hand. She shuddered, and startled, I let her go, afraid of hurting her. I stepped back, and she looked up at me, beautiful, bruised eyes gazing into mine.

"Did I . . . did I hurt you?" I whispered.

She shook her head violently. Then she paused, and nodded. Tears spilled from her eyes. I hastily pulled my handkerchief out and handed it to her. I laid my hand on her shoulder, as lightly as I could.

"Where?" I asked.

She shook her head again, weeping into the handkerchief with one hand, and only pointed to her breast. Her heart. I took a deep, trembling breath.

"I'm sorry."

She grasped my hand, hard. Her nails dug into my skin. She turned her eyes up to me again, wide and urgent. "No! Do not say that! It is I who should be begging forgiveness. I –" She broke off and blew her nose. "I have taken your heart without your permission, chained you down, assumed things too wonderful for me, and by my presumption, have brought you low."

I stared at her in shock. "Nay! I would not take back my heart for anything, not even for the Silmarils in Morgoth's crown. It is yours. I am willingly chained to you, forever. You deserve all the wonders of the world, of which I am the least. You have not brought me low, but rather, raised me up." I felt tears in eyes, and I cursed them. I clasped my hands around hers and drew her close to me.

"Why must you be so good?" she wept.

I wrapped my arms around her, gentle but firm. I felt her slipping away, like water down a river, away, and gone forever. We did not move, and mayhap the wheeling stars passed over us for countless years or a day, I know not. After an age, I whispered, "May I kiss you?"

"Yes."

I looked down at her and she lifted her face toward mine, eyes closed, dark lashes resting on her pale skin. She looked so small, so weary, so bare and unassuming. I thought to myself, what right have I to thus kiss so fragile a creature, so trusting, so vulnerable? I felt too big, too strong, too perceptive. As I gazed down at her, contemplating, she smiled a little, and said, "Well?"

I kissed her.

She trembled a little as we separated. "I should go," she whispered.

I nodded.

She didn't move.

"I will wait for you."

I don't remember which of us said it. I think perhaps she did. It made more sense, in a bitter, twisting way. I could wait forever, until Mandos called me from this Middle-Earth I was bound to, but she knew no time. She alighted on the world, once, a star caught in her hair, and she would not tarry long. And then I would wander, whether on this cursed earth I could never be entirely free of, or in Mandos' fading halls, either way forever without Andreth Saelind.


	11. Inspiration: Varda

I look up into the endless skies.

Vast emptiness, eternal darkness, undisturbed, save for Manwë's winds. They fill the air, rushing, roaming, and reaving, an invisible dance in the heavens.

I have a nagging feeling something is missing, though.

I want to do something special for the Children when they come.

I close my eyes, trying to recall what the Children looked like in the vision Ilúvatar showed us.

Beautiful, so beautiful, and so sad. And light. Light in their eyes, in their hair. Brilliant, beautiful, terrible beings, so fragile and full of light. I loved the light. If only I can capture the radiance of their forms and scatter them throughout the skies, silent guardians of Eä.

I open my eyes.

Aulë creates lights for the bowels earth. I will create lights for heavens.

I pour all of my being into them, remembering the Children, fashioning their light in my hands. I labor so long over them, perfecting them, pausing occasionally to weep when the beauty and sadness of the memory of the Children becomes too much for me. These lights will be for them. They will be a sign of the Valar, a sign of Varda, a sign of infinite love.

And then, at last, my works are complete, and I take them out to the eternal skies, and release them.

They shimmer out into the world, globes of light and wonder.

My stars.

As they spin out, I send a silent prayer after them, hoping one day, when the Children weary of Arda (I do not know why they would, but I cannot forget their sadness), that they will gaze upon my stars and remember me and know they are not forgotten.


	12. You: Beren

**A dialogue between Beren and Lúthien.**

* * *

You are everything I am not.

 _Do not say that, Beren._

It is true, though.

 _Pray tell, why?_

You are immortal, and I am not.

 _That means nothing._

Does it? What will you do when I die?

 _Do not speak of that! Please, do not speak of that._

And you are innocent.

 _You had no choice in the matter, Beren._

Perhaps if I had been quicker . . .

 _You cannot know, Beren. Many wonder, and will never know._

Why do you love me?

 _You are noble. In a land of darkness, it is a rare thing._

But why not one of your kin? Why not that minstrel, oh, I forget his name?

 _Daeron? But you see, even my own kin are far less noble than you._

He did it out of love for you.

 _I know, and I weep for him. These are dark days, and the minds of the Quendi become clouded. Perhaps, in another life, he would have done differently. But you, I know, would never have done it, in any life._

Us Men have our share of traitors and scoundrels.

 _To me, it does not matter what race bore you. To me, you are Beren, the son of Barahir, and I love you._

And you are Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of King Thingol, and I love you.


	13. Confused: Rochallar

Though I never questioned them, I could not understand why things happened the way they did. For hundreds of years, I roamed in the fair fields of Aman, my lord astride me, relaxed and happy. And then, all went dark, and fire burned on the horizon, and my lord came for me, agitated and angry. He led me out of my stall and piled all sorts of baggage on me (I had never been used as a pack-horse before). He mounted me and rode away from his house, from my stable. I did not know I would never see it again.

I saw my friends, my pasture fellows, my comrades from long ago when I was but a colt. Their lords and ladies were all grim, a strange wrath burning beneath their skin. I asked my best friend, Falassir, if he knew what was passing.

He snorted, a glint of fear in his eyes. "Our lords are mad," was all he would say.

We came to the sea, to Alqualondë, which I loved in my younger days. But there were not the usual smiles and laughter, the dances, and the treats taken from loaded tables (lumps of dark brown sugar and candied apples). There were shouts, and drawn swords, which startled me, and I shied. But my lord urged me ahead, into the midst of the screams, the running, and the blood, so much blood. A stray sword nicked my shoulder, which did not hurt much, but I could not understand why the people I loved would inflict so much pain on each other, or why they would harm me.

After the air stilled, rank with blood, I felt my lord slide off me, trembling, and he buried his face in my mane, weeping.

And then we boarded the great swan ships, and went northward, up into a bitter and cold land. We tarried there for a long time. I stood close to my companions for warmth, and we talked in low voices among ourselves.

"It is far too cold here," whimpered a mare, Telparië.

"Our lords have gone mad," Falassir repeated. "An insect has entered their brains, driving them mad. We should not be surprised if they turn on us before too long."

"They would never do that!" I cried. "They love us."

Alcarë disagreed. "Hadn't you noticed how strangely they'd been acting before we left? Shorter tempers, more outings all alone."

"Speak for yourself, Alcarë," nickered Hevien, tossing her dark red mane. "Your lord is always short-tempered, always riding alone. My lord had not done anything up until the Darkening to worry me."

"Well, my lord hit me while we rode out of Valinor," said Celebthir quietly.

We all stopped talking at that. No Eldar had ever raised his hand against his horse before.

"Why?" I asked after a while. We never questioned our lords, but perhaps it was Celebthir's fault.

"I do not rightly know. Perhaps I was not going fast enough for him. But he never minded going slow before. I do not understand." Celebthir lowered his head and would not speak any more. His friend, Asfaloth, nuzzled him.

"My lord frightened me so much at Alqualondë. I did not even recognize him," said Felenor.

"My lady wept for so long afterwards," said Laurinel, her eyes sad. "I wish I could do something for her."

"They are mad, I tell you."

Suddenly, and quietly, several of our lords came to us, and took Felenor, Telparië, Alcarë, and others away. I thought they were going to exercise them. I did not know I would not see them for many, many years.

The ships sailed away, and I watched them go, wondering.

A cry resounded among our lords, and they all ran to the banks of the ice, shouting and cursing. I later learned we should have been on those ships as well. I did not understand.

I did not understand why we had to travel through ice and freezing water, wind and snow, along the edges of ice cliffs, utter darkness below, past chasms and mountains; no light, save from meager fires; no water, save carefully melted ice chips; no food, save dry, brittle plants we found. Once, Laurinel, slipped, and plummeted into one of the chasms, her lady with her. We could do nothing, but continue on.

And at last, we came to another land, a land free of ice and death (or so I thought). Light came once again, by way of a strange brilliance from the heavens. I did not question it, only accepted it, as with everything else.

My lord built a new house, and I lived in a stable once again. I saw Falassir once in a while, when his lord brought him to the house. I vaguely missed my friends and a place called Valinor, but while I remembered it, my life was now here, and I lived it here.

All seemed well, though not as well as it had been in Valinor. There were more battles, and I learned to not shy away from the sword, the spear, or the javelin, not to fear (very much) when the horrible beasts from the North attacked, not to mind wounds or blood.

I saw Felenor and the others twice more, before they vanished into the East forever.

And then, one day, a fell wind came out of the North.

I raised my head and flared my nostrils. The wind bore an evil smell on it, and I snorted in an attempt to dispel the stench. The familiar unease which had been present in me ever since blackness overtook Valinor grew in me once again, and I stamped my hooves in the straw. I saw my lord coming for me, and my unease increased. His air reminded me of that time so long when he took me from my stall in Valinor and we rode away, leaving it all behind.

And I knew then that Falassir's words were true. He had gone mad.

We rode into the north like a wind, tearing through the grasses, ripping up the dust, all fleeing before us. We rode into the black mountains from whence the fell stench came from, and at last, we halted before a steep pass. I could see smoke rising above us, and I shivered, for I could feel the evil of the land in every part of me.

My lord shuddered, a little, before dismounting. He took off the gilt silver saddle, the blue and silver blanket, the silver bridle. He laid them all in a heap beside a rock, shining like a star. Then he went up to me and stroked the sides of my face. I leaned into his hands, delighting in the warmth and gentleness of him. He whispered, "Go now, my beauty, my Rochallar. This Middle-Earth is now yours. Go where you will, but do not forget me."

I did not understand, and I lipped at his sleeve. He laughed in a low voice, pulling away from me. He patted my neck, and then his fingers left me, forever. With a strange, fell gleam in his eyes, he turned away and strode up the mountain pass.

I watched him go, until I could no longer see him.

Us horses never question our lords. But –

We rarely understand them.

* * *

 **Okay, so I might have gotten a bit carried away with this one . . . but I couldn't get past how fascinating the events from** _ **The** **Silmarillion**_ **would be if told from the perspective of the ever-present, but essentially ignored horses.**

 **Also, I am assuming Valinor horses live forever.**

 **Also also, if anybody's dying to know who the owners of each of the horses are, here they are:**

 **Falassir - Fingon**

 **Telpari** **ë - Amrod**

 **Alcarë - Celegorm**

 **Hevien - Finrod**

 **Celebthir - Turgon**

 **Asfaloth - Glorfindel (his horse in canon)**

 **Felenor - Caranthir**

 **Laurinel - Elenw** **ë**

 **And, of course, Rochallar is Fingolfin's horse. :)**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**


	14. Affection: Thingol

"Ada, lookit!"

I looked up from my book in time to see my wife release the swing and my little daughter soar into the sky, utter delight on her tiny face.

I gave her an indulgent smile, when I noticed her slide a bit on the swing. I stood up, dropping the book, but I was too late, and she fell into the wet grass with a little cry.

"Lúthien!" My wife ran to her, her blue dress billowing behind her. I joined her, my insides twisted with anxiety.

I carefully lifted my daughter up, brushing back her silky black hair tangled in sticks. "Are you hurt, darling?"

She laughed and reached out to catch a lock of my silver hair, her hands covered in rich, black mud. "I'm fine, Ada!" She struggled in my grasp. "I want to swing more!"

Relieved, I let her go, and she crawled back onto the swing, looking up at Melian expectantly. My wife laughed and obliged her, though not swinging her quite as high as before. I wiped off my hair, then retreated to the side, arms folded.

"Higher, Nana!" Lúthien cried.

Melian gave me a sidelong look. "I don't want you to fall again."

"I don't care. I'll be fine. I want to fly!"

I stifled a laugh. The little daredevil.

Melian made the swing go slightly higher, still not as high as before.

"I want to be a bird when I grow up!" Lúthien called as she swung up. When she came down, though, she appeared to have reconsidered. "Actually, I want to be a star."

"A star?" I said. "Why a star, little one?"

"Because I can fly forever." Her smile widened. "And I can light the way for travelers."

"I like you as Lúthien, the elven princess of Doriath," said Melian.

"But I don't get to do anything important," Lúthien grumbled.

"You must do important things?" I said, humoring her.

"Yes. Like you, Ada."

"Oh? And what do I do that is so important?"

"You protect Doriath!" She grinned.

I laughed again. "Your mother does that, love. I merely make sure the people are happy."

"That's important!"

"Then what you do is important, too," I told her.

"What?"

"You also make people happy. You are the shining joy of all of Doriath."

Lúthien looked pleased at this. "Shining. Like a star?"

"Like a star."


	15. Joy: Gelmir

**Mishkin: Thank you so much for your reviews! They are much appreciated. :)**

* * *

"Gelmir, I need to talk to you."

I looked up from my painting, startled. My older brother Gwindor stood in the doorway of my room, looking a little nervous. I stood. "Certainly, brother. What is the matter?"

He licked his lips. "It's about . . . Finduilas."

The princess, with golden hair and silver laughter. "What about her?"

"I . . . I wish to propose to her."

My stomach twisted at this, but I said nothing.

"But I wanted to ask you about it first, because I know you love her as well. If it hurts you, then I will not wed her." He took a deep breath. "And you may wed her instead, if you so desire."

A flame long suppressed flared once again in me at his words. Finduilas. _Finduilas._ I could come out from under the shadow of my brother and wed her whom I loved most. I could finally kiss her, run my hands unabashedly through her golden hair, hold her tiny white hands and ask her, _"Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth of the House of Finarfin, will you marry me?"_ I closed my eyes, shuddering a little, and with great effort, took hold of the flame and buried it deep within me again. I would never feel her lips against mine, never. I opened my eyes, finding them a little moist. I blinked, and smiled. "Thank you, brother, but Finduilas gave her heart to you from the start. I will not deprive the two of you of joy."

Gwindor relaxed, and smiled with relief. "Thank you, Gelmir. Thank you. Thank you!" His face flushed, his eyes shining, he ran from the room.

I smiled after him and returned to my painting, recalling when my brother and I first met Finduilas.

 _"Do you want to play?" Gwindor asked the pretty little girl with golden hair._

 _"Yes!" she cried. "What do you want to play?"_

 _"Hide and seek?" I suggested, watching the girl carefully. I did not know if I liked her or not._

 _"Yes! You seek!" She tapped my arm and sped off._

 _"She's fast," Gwindor remarked._

 _"She's a girl," I said, a little scornful. Girls never found good hiding places, and they always cried when you found them._

 _But half an hour later, we were still searching all of Nargothrond for the girl. At last, tired and bored, my brother and I collapsed in the main drawing room. A little while later, she came skipping in, an impish grin on her face. "I win!"_

 _"Yes, you win," I growled, reluctant to admit it._

 _"What's your names?" she asked as she sat down next to us._

 _"I'm Gwindor, and that's Gelmir,"said my brother._

 _I refused to look at her._

 _"I'm Princess Finduilas." She did like giving her title when she was younger._

 _I sat up. "You're not a princess."_

 _"Am too. I can prove it."_

 _She took us to her room and showed us her silver tiara. I wasn't convinced. She flounced her skirt. "Just ask Uncle Finrod. He knows."_

 _Finrod was king of Nargothrond at the time, and we didn't see him often, but he did not mind our presence. We found him in his study._

 _"Uncle Finrod, they don't believe I'm the princess."_

 _He smiled down at us. "Gwindor, Gelmir. Finduilas is indeed the princess. Her father is Orodreth, my brother."_

 _We stared at her in awe. I wasn't happy at being wrong twice. She giggled and poked my cheek. "You're funny, Gelmir."_

 _I reddened and pushed her away. "Finrod, make her stop."_

 _"She just wants to be your friend."_

 _I was about to give my opinion of this, when Gwindor said, "What do you want to play now, Finduilas?"_

 _She giggled and took his hand. "Tag!" Looking at me, she said, "And you can be 'it' again, Gelmir!" She dashed off again, dragging Gwindor behind her. I stared after her in shock. Uncle Finrod laughed._

 _"What do you think of her?" he asked me._

 _"I have no idea."_

 _"She's a great joy, Gelmir. I think you'll come to like her. Now, go on, and catch her!"_

 _I grumbled, but did as he said._

Many years later (innumerable years, it feels to me), my brother would call her Faelivrin, the "gleam of the sun on the pools of Ivrin" [1]. A joy.

But they never married.

* * *

 **[1]** **Quote from Chapter 21 of _The Silmarillion_ by J. R. R. Tolkien, "Of Túrin Turambar.** **"**


	16. Horror: Melian

I never thought it would come to this.

When I left the misty gardens of Lórien, the dew on the roses, the whispers of the trees and the nightingales, the winds and songs they carried – when I took on the raiment of the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar and tarried in the forests of Nan Elmoth before the evil came . . . when I first beheld _him –_ him with the silken silver hair like stars caught on his head, with eyes that saw the land and light I loved; when I gave birth to what people called the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar; when I sat in my throne beside my lord and gazed over the vast lands spread around us and defied the darkness that clawed at the borders of my land; when I submitted to him whom I loved when I could have destroyed them all, when I could have granted the mortal permission, when I could have withheld the sword, when I could have smote the Dwarf lords and cursed them as they fled the kingdom . . .

I never thought it would come to this.

Horror. Utter horror.

"My lady?"

I looked down at Mablung, his deep blue eyes weary, wary, devoid of light and life. We gazed at each other, both broken and tired of the world that is _(Arda Marred)._

"Mablung." I did not recognize my voice. It could not belong to Melian the Maia. What could have happened to make her voice sound so _mortal,_ so _vulnerable?_

"What . . . would you have me do?"

The darkness crept closer, upon the borders of my land, the borders of my mind. _("I will destroy you, Melian," I heard him in head.)_ I knew something more terrible would come. The elven lands would wither from within and founder beneath the seas _(and a terrible light shone in their depths)._

But I could do no more. Galadriel and Celeborn were far away, were safe. Lúthien and Beren were safe. I could do no more. I pitied Mablung.

"Guard the Silmaril. Send word to Beren and Lúthien in Ossiriand."

"And my lady?"

"Yes, Mablung?"

He looked away from me, his dark hair obscuring his face. Mablung of the Heavy Hand, once proud, once strong, once fearless. He looked like a small child about to ask something of a parent. "Where will you go?"

I almost wept. "I return to Aman."

He lifted his face, his eyes wide.

I raised my hand. "Long may you guard Doriath."

After a moment's hesitation, he raised his hand in return. "Thank you, my lady."

I turned away and I did not look back.


	17. Acceptance: Ulmo

**Sorry this one is so short - my arms have been hurting from too much typing.**

* * *

I told Manwë. I told him several times, told him, _"Melkor is up to no good. He has not changed,"_ before I ceased, Varda giving me a gentle warning look. I could never quite heed the strict protocols of the other Valar. "You heed none," Tulkas once told me, laughing. That was before Melkor.

 _"You heed none."_

Not true. Not entirely.

But we sat gathered in the Máhanaxar, listening to Melkor give his case, and I watched Manwë smile, that gracious smile that came to irritate me so, and say, "Very well, brother. You have the pardon of the Valar." And I longed to leap up and shout to bring Varda's stars down from the heavens, and stay his hand, and chain Melkor back up and cast him forever into the Void.

Manwë was too good, could barely comprehend evil, so close was he in Ilúvatar's thought, and he could not see that Melkor could never again become as he once was, long and long ago when we made music . . . when everything was beautiful, and even then I could not imagine that one day the rivers and oceans I would one day take thought and delight in would run red and the voices of many would cry out to me, and I would cradle a fallen star in my depths, listening forever to the lament of one whose voice was like the sea, causing even Ossë to weep and my heart to tremble within me . . .

But did I? Did I ignore Manwë's decision and follow my own way, as Melkor once did?

I could not.

I was too powerful, too mighty, placed in charge of too much authority to rebel.

So I accepted Manwë's will.

And the waters wept.


	18. Sympathy: Idril

"Eärendil!"

I stumbled down the blood-stained white paving-stones of the city I loved, dodging crumbling walls, and slashing at the orcs with the sword Tuor gave me before he disappeared. I came to Amon Gwareth, hoping Eärendil hadn't come here. I had been holding the hand of my young son only a moment ago – but then one of those filthy beasts leaped on us, and I lost him. What if an orc found him? What if he fell off the cliff? What if –

"Mama!"

My heart jumped at my son's panicked voice, but before I could react, something grabbed me from behind, took my arms, and twisted the sword from my hand. "You will pay, spawn of Morgoth!" I yelled, tears streaming down my face.

I felt his breath and his lips brush my ear as he hissed, "I am no orc, cousin."

I stiffened and my blood ran cold.

"Let me go, Maeglin," I said, willing my voice to remain steady.

"Mama!" I heard Eärendil cry again, and I craned my head around, trying to find him.

"Shut up, brat!" Maeglin snapped.

I shuddered "Let him go, please."

He grasped me tighter. "No. I have waited far too long. You will be mine, Idril. Mine."

"The city is falling. Why now?" His arm had slid up to my throat, and I could hardly breathe the ash-filled air.

"A fitting reward for suffering for the sake of this accursed city!" He shook me and Eärendil began crying.

My head spun. "Reward? Maeglin, you –"

"Maeglin!"

I felt him freeze as Tuor's silver voice rose above the tumult around us.

"Ada!" Eärendil shrieked.

"I said shut up, brat!" Maeglin's words came out in short, hot, gasps.

I twisted around in his arm, trying to see my husband. I caught sight of Eärendil, whom Maeglin held with his other hand. Tears streaked his dirty face, but his beautiful eyes lit up when he saw me.

I heard Tuor again. "Unhand – my – son – and – wife!"

I saw a flash of movement and a whip of golden hair as Tuor barreled into Maeglin, sending all of us sprawling along the edge of the cliff. I scrambled to my feet, tripping on my torn dress, and reached out to Eärendil, catching his hand and pulling him away. Tuor and Maeglin stumbled up and faced each other, hate black in Maeglin's eyes, righteous anger in my husband's. With a snarl, Maeglin leaped upon him with his knife, and Tuor met him with his sword. They fought there, along the edge of Amon Gwareth, while fire and ruin fell upon us from above. Eärendil buried his face in my dress and I held him, my whole world centered on the two figures as they came closer and closer to the slopes of the cliff.

And then.

Tuor slashed at Maeglin, who dodged, but his foot slid on the edge, and with a thrust of his sword, Tuor cast him over the edge.

My heart caught in my mouth, I took in a sharp breath, and, Eru forgive me, I reached out my arms. Tuor turned, heaving and red-faced, sweat slick on his brow and in his golden hair, and saw me, arms halfway up. I met his gaze and lowered them, feeling ashamed.

He strode up to us and pulled me close to him. Eärendil wrapped his arms around his leg, weeping. After a moment, Tuor whispered, "Idril?"

I took in a shuddering breath. "That's where they cast his father."

He leaned away from me and searched my face.

I shook my head and wiped away the tears. "He was horrible, horrible. But – still, I somehow have sympathy for him."


End file.
